“He is preparing us, my child,” answered the old woman, “for the striking of the last hour.”
At midnight the Knights of Idleness were collecting, one by one like shadows, under the trees of the boulevard Baron, and speaking together in whispers.
“What are we going to do?” was the first question of each as he arrived.
“I think,” said Francois, “that Max means merely to give us a supper.”
“No; matters are very serious for him, and for the Rabouilleuse: no doubt, he has concocted some scheme against the Parisians.”
“It would be a good joke to drive them away.”
“My grandfather,” said Baruch, “is terribly alarmed at having two extra mouths to feed, and he’d seize on any pretext—”
“Well, comrades!” cried Max softly, now appearing on the scene, “why are you star-gazing? the planets don’t distil kirschwasser. Come, let us go to Mere Cognette’s!”
“To Mere Cognette’s! To Mere Cognette’s!” they all cried.
The cry, uttered as with one voice, produced a clamor which rang through the town like the hurrah of troops rushing to an assault; total silence followed. The next day, more than one inhabitant must have said to his neighbor: “Did you hear those frightful cries last night, about one o’clock? I thought there was surely a fire somewhere.”